Thou Shalt Not Grill

by Tamar Myers

  “How on earth do you know that?” I clapped my hands over my ears, dreading the answer. But not so tight that I couldn’t hear it.

  “Because your papa was always teasing her. Also said she had to check the gas stove ten times before she left the house.”

  “Well, I’m not Mama, and I only check it twice. I asked the question because of one of my guests, not me.”

  He took a sip of coffee and leaned back in his chair. “I’m listening.”

  “Her name is Octavia, because she was born in August, and apparently she has this thing about the number eight. Especially when it comes to stairs, but I’ve seen her doing it at other times as well.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, I planted a false clue—to two other guests, not her—about the Hochstetler treasure being buried under my manure pile.”

  Doc’s coffee exited in a fine spray. “That’s my girl. Magdalena, I sure as heck hope this Rosen woman is half as interesting as you.”

  “Thanks—I think. Anyway, this morning the haufa mischt had been scattered and the ground beneath it dug up. Into eight piles. And each pile had eight stones pressed into it.”

  “Were the stones randomly placed, or in recognizable groupings?”

  “Random. I didn’t notice them at first. And what’s more, Doc, the piles weren’t all the same size. Close maybe, but not the same.”

  He dabbed at his shirt with a crisp linen napkin. “Well, like I said, I’m not a people doctor, but if you want my guess—for what it’s worth—it looks like a setup. Anyone who was compulsive enough to put the dirt in eight piles would make them as even as possible. As for that stone bit, it’s over the top.”

  “That’s what I thought. It’s like someone is purposely calling attention to the eight piles. To direct suspicion away from themselves.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Ah, so you know who it is?”

  “I have my theory.”

  “But you’re not going to act on it alone, right?” “Absolutely not. Thist me, Doc, I’ve learned my lesson.” He sighed. “Yeah, I bet. Promise me that if you get in over your head, you’ll call the sheriff not the dummkopl.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain—I mean Doc.”

  But if life throws you a curveball, and you don’t have any of your own—curves, that is—you take what you can get. I was on my way to the inn, fully intending to give the sheriff a call if things got out of hand, when I spotted Octavia’s limo. It was headed not back to Penn- Dutch, but in the other direction, toward the road that leads up Stucky Ridge. It was my duty to follow it, at a discreet distance, of course, to see if the occupants were up to any mischief. They were, after all, on the wrong side of town for both the hay-baling and the Bake-Off When they turned on the winding lane to the summit, I stuck with them. Yes, I know it should have been the sheriff I dialed on my cell phone. But in my defense, Melvin does live on this side of town. Besides, I still had no proof

  “What now?” he snapped. I was right to assume that our Chief of Police would take the day off when the town was overflowing with visitors. There were probably a million—okay, maybe half a dozen—fender benders, and no one available to write up citations. Not unless Zelda could be convinced to give up her vacation. Perhaps I should give her a call next and entice her with the probability that at least one of the fender benders was going to result in fisticuffs. Breaking up a fight was an activity she was bound to enjoy.

  “I think I know who did it,” I said calmly.

  “Don’t tell me, you idiot. Unless, of course, it was Erica Kane.”

  “Are you watching that soap opera again?”

  “It’s not a soap; it’s a televised drama. So you don’t know who, do you?”

  “Augusta Miller and Stanley Dalrumple. She’s Octavia’s twin sister. I’m not sure what Mr. Dalrumple’s connection is, other than chauffeur.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Yoder. They’re not even in the story line.”

  “Listen to me you—you—” Fortunately I sputtered out of steam before I called him a name. I took a deep, cleansing breath. “I’m talking about the murders of Buzzy Porter and Ron Humphrey.”

  “Yeah, those names I recognize.”

  If my arms were skinnier I could reach through a phone line and grab Melvin by his equally scrawny neck. I was, however, on my cell phone.

  “Melvin, dear,” I said dripping so much sarcasm I feared for the floorboards of my car, “if you can’t remember the last several days, then perhaps you should indeed consider the presidency. Or maybe big business.”

  “Thanks, Yoder—hey, that wasn’t a compliment, was it?”

  I watched the limo make the last turn before reaching the summit. “No, it wasn’t. But if you want a chance to exercise your strongest muscle—maybe even redeem yourself—meet me up on Stucky Ridge. Pronto.”

  “I’m a married man, Yoder.”

  I considered the source. “The suspects are in the limo. I’m pretty sure they don’t know they’re being followed. Meet me just before the top, at the last bend. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”

  “Okay, Yoder, but you better be onto something. One Life to Live comes on next.”

  “Summit!” I hissed and then hung up.

  30

  Author’s note: Pious people should avoid this recipe, which involves both alcohol and the business end of a chicken. However, yielding to temptation does reward one with a delectable treat.

  Jim and Jan Langdoc’s Beer Butt Chicken

  Hickory or mesquite- scented wood chips

  1 can beer

  Commercial or homemade “rub”

  1 whole chicken, thoroughly washed and patted dry

  Vegetable oil as needed

  Homemade Bub

  ½ cup salt (sea or kosher)

  ½ cup paprika (sweet or hot)

  ½ cup brown sugar (light or dark)

  3 tablespoons freshly ground pepper

  Soak hickory or mesquite-scented wood chips for 30 minutes in half of the beer, leaving the other half of the beer in the can. Spread soaked chips over hot coals in the grill (or if using gas, put in smoker box).

  Sprinkle 1 teaspoon of rub into cavity of chicken. Oil the outside of the chicken and sprinkle with 1 tablespoon of the rub. Rub in well.

  Put about 1½ tablespoons of rub directly into tab opening of the beer can. Punch 2 additional holes in the can, using a sharp object (such as grilling fork). Insert the beer can into the cavity of the chicken.

  Place can and chicken on grill, so that the legs and can form a tripod to support the chicken. Cook until meat thermometer reaches 180 degrees without touching bone (between 1 and 1½ hours). The steam from the beer keeps the bird moist and succulent, as well as giving it character. Let the chicken rest 5 minutes before serving.

  31

  The limo stopped soon after it reached the summit, which surprised me. It did not surprise me, however, to see both Augusta Miller and Stanley Dalrumple hop out. Stanley was carrying a coil of rope over his shoulder. Augusta had a pair of binoculars hung around her neck. I was able to spot these accouterments because I keep a pair of binoculars of my own in the glove Compartment. Don’t ask me what I use them for, and you’ll be spared an answer that might embarrass you.

  At any rate, neither of them glanced my way, and if they had, they probably wouldn’t have seen me anyway. I’d stopped my car the second I saw their brake lights come on, and had advanced on foot. Now I was hiding behind a tree trunk, which is yet another advantage of being rail thin.

  I could hear their conversation, thanks to a gentle breeze that was blowing in my direction. Still, it was faint, so I cupped both hands behind my ears.

  “You should have marked the spot where you threw the shovel over.” At that distance Augusta’s voice sounded identical to that of her sister. Why hadn’t I noticed that before?

  “But, Grandma,” Stanley whined, “it’s not like I had the time. That jogger was onto us, and my prints were all over the handle.” />
  Grandma! So that was Augusta’s relationship to the boy. I crept closer.

  “You should have worn gloves, Stanley, like I told you.”

  “So I forgot them. You didn’t remember either, and this whole damn thing was your idea, not mine.”

  “Don’t you swear in front of me,” Augusta snarled. “And switching the bodies at the morgue was most cer-tainly not my idea.”

  “You got to admit, that was brilliant thinking on my part. Kept them confused long enough so that we could dispose of Buzzy.”

  She sighed. “It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. Buzzy was my grandson too. But oh no, he had to jump the gun—get all the treasure for himself Didn’t I tell you from the beginning that he was high-risk? Just like that no-good magician father of his, who stole my youngest daughter off to Vegas.”

  “Yeah, but Grandma, you said yourself that Buzzy probably heard the treasure story a million times before Auntie Vera and Uncle Ray died in that accident.”

  It was a bizarre time for her to laugh, but that didn’t stop her. “I guess we should be glad that my dotty old sister has been too stuck on herself all these years to see the boy even once. She didn’t even blink when they were introduced Sunday.”

  Stanley snickered. “You can bet the cops would have blinked if they’d had more time with his body. I look just like him when I take off my glasses.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself Stanley. Just thank your lucky stars I remembered that little cave at the bottom of Lovers’ Leap.”

  “Yeah, but I had to lower his body through these trees and then push all them leaves up against the cave.”

  “Well, I couldn’t exactly get down there myself now, could I? I’m not a spring chicken anymore, you know.” “You were supposed to run over the jogger, but you didn’t. So then I had to shoot him.”

  “Stanley, are you getting cheeky with me?”

  “I’m just saying, seems to me I’ve had to do all the work. So what if I had a little fun along the way?” “You’re just like your cousin, Stanley. You know that? You could have been caught, and that would have been the end of everything.”

  The lad giggled. “Yeah, but Buzzy is dead, and I’m not. Man, I’d give anything to hear what went on in that rinky-dink morgue when they discovered the switch. But you can bet it wasn’t one of the staff. They were as dumb as bricks.”

  Augusta snorted. “They couldn’t sew shut a Thanks-giving turkey if their lives depended on it. No, it had to be that busybody, Ms. Yoder.”

  “Needle Nose?”

  Needle Nose? Why, the nerve of that boy! And she was no better—busybody indeed. I crept closer so as not to miss a disparaging word. Unfortunately, it is hard to put a size eleven shoe—even a narrow one—down on any surface without making a noise. It is especially hard to do so when skirting a woods. The branch that cracked under my foot must have been as dry as tinder, because the report was as loud as a sonic boom.

  Stanley and Augusta wheeled in unison, as if they had choreographed the scene. He was holding a gun, which appeared to be aimed right at me, and she already had the binoculars pressed to her face.

  “It’s her,” she said. “Needle Nose. Under that sycamore.”

  Intellectually I knew that small handguns are notoriously inaccurate, especially at a distance. If I ran, particularly in a zigzag pattern, my chances of escaping unharmed were good. And since I stood at the edge of the woods, they were, in fact, excellent. Alas, my brain refused to communicate this knowledge to my legs, which had suddenly become columns of overcooked pasta. Mountains of mushy macaroni. Rebellious rigatoni. Spastic spaghetti. Limp linguini. Choose your carbohydrate, but you get the picture.

  This cowardly reaction is quite unlike me, I assure you. Under normal circumstances I might well have charged the deadly duo and then nudged them off the cliff with my infamous shnoz. These were not normal circumstances, however, because when I stepped on the crackling branch, I had placed my tootsie no more than an inch away from a snake.

  It was a small snake, not more than a foot and a half long, but from the pattern on its back, not to mention its telltale tail, I could see at once that it was some form of rattler. It was coiled when I first saw it, but almost immediately it began to unwind in a quest to slither away to safety. It was, however, directionally challenged, and in its haste to escape, slithered directly over my foot.

  I can’t blame the poor thing for mistaking my black brogan for just another boulder. I’m sure it was as con-fused and scared as I was. It took only a second or two for the reptile to cross my foot, but those precious seconds were all Stanley Dalrumple needed. As the snake disappeared under the litter of leaves that blanketed the ground, the chauffeur and would-be heir closed the gap that was my margin of safety.

  “Take one step, Miss Yoder, and I’ll blow your refrigerator head off.” He actually used a far cruder expression, one that bears no repeating.

  My legs were still not under my command, although my tongue was. “Your grandmother should wash your mouth out with soap.”

  By now Augusta was close enough to hear what I said. “My grandson’s language is none of your business, Miss Yoder.”

  “Some grandmother you are. You don’t seem the least bit saddened by your other grandson’s death. That bogus fortune means more to you.”

  “It isn’t bogus,” Stanley snapped. “Tell her, Grandma.”

  Augusta’s face, when viewed closely, was not a pretty sight. Please don’t misunderstand, there is nothing wrong with wrinkles. Her skin, however, was so dry and so crisscrossed with creases, that it resembled the soles of my feet in the dead of winter.

  “We found a map in the time capsule.”

  “Map?”

  “Don’t pretend you’re stupid, Miss Yoder. It’s a map that shows where the Hochstetler family treasure is buried.”

  “I honestly don’t know anything about a treasure map. If anything, the capsule was supposed to contain a list of the founding fathers. Sort of a code as to which family Bible to look in.”

  “Ah, Bibi Norton’s theory. Well, she’s wrong. As simple as that. It’s a map, and we have it now.”

  “Get out of town!”

  “We plan to, just as soon as we figure out how to read it.”

  “Show it to her, Grandma.”

  I was dying of curiosity. “Yes, please show it to me.”

  To my astonishment Augusta reached into the front of her dress and withdrew from her bosom an ancient piece of paper. Mama used to keep a clean handkerchief in her cleavage, and Susannah keeps a dog where her bosom should be, so this was definitely a family trait. It’s just that I didn’t really expect there to be a map.

  “You help us find it,” she said, “and we won’t kill you.”

  “But she’ll squeal,” Stanley squealed. He sounded just like our soon-to-be-ex-pet pig.

  I shook my head vigorously. My legs had regained their strength and I was feeling feisty again—well, at least foolish.

  “Split it three ways, and I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Why, the nerve,” Augusta said, but her eyes shone with admiration.

  “Show me.” I held out my right hand.

  Augusta opened the document with great care. “I remembered the cave, but not all the area landmarks.” She wouldn’t let me touch it, but she did let me get close enough to get a good look. It was all I could do to keep from laughing. In fact, a sort of bray escaped my lips before I could will them closed. The map, you see, was not a treasure map at all, but the seating plan for an outdoor toilet. An outhouse, as we used to call them.

  This particular sketch was not for your run-of-the- mill outhouse, but the famous six seater that Great-grandpa Milo Yoder built on the family farm. It was hailed as the largest outhouse east of the Mississippi, and some wag on the Bedford newspaper even dubbed it the Eighth Wonder of the Underworld. I know, it must sound ostentatious to have such a grand bathroom, even if it was detached from the house and lacked plumbing. But you see, my
great-grandparents had eleven children. An ordinary two seater just wouldn’t do. Besides, Great-grandpa Milo was of the philosophy that the family that sprayed together, stayed together. Thist me, I hadn’t an inkling that the plans for this incredible structure (which was sadly destroyed by fire in my lifetime) had been deemed important enough to be included in Hernia’s time capsule.

  “Is something funny, Miss Yoder?” Stanley looked like he wanted to snatch the map from his grandmother’s hands and away from my mocking eyes.

  “Oh, nothing in the least,” I managed to say with a straight face. “It’s just that I recognize everything on this map.” That, incidentally, was the truth. The large rectangle was our barn, the square was our house, and the long narrow rectangle with the row of small circles in it, the famous six seater. There were even two scalloped circles to represent the pair of large maples that still stand in my front yard.

  “Okay, you’re in,” Augusta said. She handed me the map.

  I shall always regret what I did next. I honestly believe I intended no harm to these killers, merely a way for me to escape so that I could be reunited with my loved ones. And anyway, we were a long way from Lovers’ Leap, and the drop-off wasn’t more than thirty feet at that point. Besides, the ledge below the cliff was covered with small trees and bushes, so that if anyone did go over, they might be badly scratched and break a few bones, but they surely wouldn’t die from the experience.

  “That,” I said, pointing to the rectangle that represented the bam, “is Murphy’s Mountain over there to the southwest. And that”—I pointed to the box that marked my house—”is Buffalo Mountain, which is behind us.”

  “Don’t look like mountain symbols to me,” Stanley said.

  I flashed him a smile, which, if genuine, would have rotted his teeth in a nanosecond. “That’s because in those days a triangle was considered vulgar, imitating as it does the female bosom.”

  Augusta nodded, as if she remembered “those days.” Perhaps she did.